The Devestation of Sherlock Holmes
by sherlocked-247
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is restless. He can't keep Irene Adler out of his mind. The woman that bested him. After he saved her from certain death in Pakistan she texts him with a Christmas wish to further challenge the genius detective. But is it a devestating mistake?
1. Merry Christmas Sherlock Holmes

Irene Adler. Sherlock frequently thought of her, the woman that challenged him like no other. She was unreadable, fiercely intelligent, and could hold her own in any situation. He admired that in her.

He recalled their meeting in Belgravia several years prior, where she first showed him her lithe, milky white body, and challenged him so. He sat in his low, black leather chair at the flat, his long legs swung over one arm, deep in thought. John had gone out so he was alone in the flat that evening.

The female form never particularly interested him, except in a purely scientific way, or when a woman could be used strategically to further a case, yet he found himself thinking of Miss Adler that night. Suddenly the silence was broken by his phone making a seductive moan. Sherlock's blue-green eyes snapped open. He reached in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the device.

'You're broody this evening Mr. Holmes. Cheer up. I have an early Christmas present for you.'

Sherlock's brow furrowed. What kind of game was she playing? He swung his legs back over the arm of the chair and set his feet on the floor. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger and closed his eyes a minute to think. A case? If she had a case she'd just come out and say it. He shouldn't be wasting his time playing her games but his curiosity was piqued.

'I'm not broody, I'm thinking. Get to the point. SH' His phone gave an erotic moan again.

'I like a man who's direct. Thinking looks good on you. What do you say to giving that big brain of yours a rest? Dinner?'

Sherlock gave a half smile. 'Not hungry. SH'

He pushed the woman from his mind. Sherlock didn't have time to waste with carnal distractions when the game was on. It just clouded his powers of deduction.

The following day while sitting at the table in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street peering into his microscope his phone moaned again.

"Sherlock, your phone" said Watson.

"Mmm" murmured the detective not glancing up from his work.

"Irene Adler!?" John asked.

"Mmm" said Sherlock, still not breaking from the microscope.

John recalled Sherlock's confession that he sometimes responded to her texts in moments of weakness. But he couldn't recall having heard that specific text alert in many months. He didn't like where this was going one bit. "What does she want?"

"Does it really matter John?" Sherlock said shooting an irritated look at Watson. He glanced down at the phone quickly. "Excuse me." Sherlock got up quickly, went to his room and closed the door.

"See you soon." His brows furrowed again, he wished she'd just come out and say it. He enjoyed a good mystery but this was just distracting from more pressing things. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and went back into the fray. He needed to address the severed fingers in the fridge.

Upon retiring to his room that evening he sensed another presence in the dark. His nose detected a hint of perfume. A cool wind blew in from an open window.

"Irene?" he called into the dark. His pulse quickened. Her hard blue eyes and blood red lips flashed behind his eyes. Then he noted a silhouette by the window as the curtain fluttered.

"Good evening Sherlock," a soft female voice whispered in the dark.

"Irene Adler. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He replied.

"You've been a naughty boy Sherlock, ignoring my texts..." she purred. "And you owe me dinner."

"I don't think so," Sherlock smirked stepping further into the room and closing the door. "That's a bad idea. And I'm not hungry." His eyes flicked back to the corner in which she stood. He could faintly make out the outline of her silky dark hair.

"Really?" She asked. "I've been watching you. You're restless. Like you're missing something but can't put your finger on it. I can help."

"Tell me what it is I need that you can give me?" he implored. He was curious. He remembered her perky white breasts but quickly pushed them from his mind with a shake of his head.

"To be with a woman of course," she said softly, taking a few steps closer to him.

"No. You're wrong. That is not at all what I need. You're an intriguing woman Miss Adler but I can't afford to cloud my judgement so," he replied.

She stepped closer again and ran a red finger nail down his cheek and down his chest, following the buttons of his dress shirt. "Come now, Sherlock. You just need to relax." The button holding the shirt closed across his chest looked ready to pop off. She could nearly see his smooth chest beneath the shirt.

From this distance Sherlock could admire her better. Red lips. Hard eyes. Black trench coat with a smell of women's perfume mixed with exotic spices and cigarettes.

"You need to go. Your offer is flattering but I'm not interested."

"You're never one to turn down a challenge. It turns you on. You get high on mysteries instead of sex and drugs. You've dabbled in drugs," she said running her nail down the inside of his forearm. "You're an addict and you miss it. I promise sex is safer, and much more accessible. I've wanted you since the moment I set eyes on you. It's my Christmas gift to you."

Sherlock's jaw stiffened and he drew in a sharp breath. He recalled her lounging in an arm chair in Belgravia completely nude. She forced him to gaze upon her soft white breasts, she outwitted him and drugged him. It made Sherlock angry but it also turned him on. She was certainly a worthy opponent. She dropped her trench coat and stood before him again, completely naked, her pale skin luminescent in the light pouring in from the window.

The pair circled each other slowly. Irene brought Sherlock's hand to her breast and he attempted to pull back. She chided him, tilting her head slightly and smiling a devious smile.

"Really, Sherlock?" she asked pushing his dark curls behind his left ear. "Tell me you're not even a little bit curious. How it feels to be inside a woman." She pushed him backwards onto his bed.

She picked something up off the dresser he couldn't see. It sparkled. She came closer to him coming to her knees on the floor in front of him, her mischevious eyes sparkling.

"You've never thought of it?" she implored, rubbing his inner thigh gently. A bulge was beginning to form in his trousers. He was fighting so hard not to think of her. Must. Remain. In. Control. He closed his eyes. She moved quickly, jabbing the needle into his leg. It stung. He cried out. "Gah! What the - what did you do that for?"

His words were already beginning to slur and the room was spinning. He fell back onto the bed, eyes half open. "Just enough to take the edge off my darling, and make you compliant. That's a good boy," she said softly. She moved to straddle him on the bed, forcing her nail between the straining top button of his purple dress shirt setting it free. She worked quickly with the other buttons exposing his lightly muscled torso. She ran her hands over his smooth body from his belt up to his shoulders and down again.

"Stop," he slurred trying to twist away to force his body up but he was unable. Things were still swimming.

Irene kisses his cheek, his neck, down his chest and his stomach until she reached his belt. "No, no, no, no, no," he muttered willing her to stop, trying to force his arousal back in its box, to stop the heat from mounting in his body. She removed the belt, unzipped the trousers, and slid them down his slim legs to the floor.

"Oh Sherlock, don't tell me you don't want it. I can tell. You may have a liars mouth but your body will always tell me the truth," she cooed rubbing his groin through his boxers. Feeling his internal response to her hand she slid them down to join his trousers. His member stood to attention, aching and ready.

"Stop" he growled. "You are a perfectly sadistic woman."

"You noticed," she smiled, stroking his shaft gently with one hand. She placed one finger in her mouth to wet it, then slid it up and down the shaft and circled the tip ever so gently.

"Oh god," he shuddered. His body felt heavy, his limbs like lead too heavy to move but still capable of convulsions under her expert hand.

She ran her tongue along where her finger had traced, placing the tip into her mouth ever so slightly. It was wet and warm and lovely. He shuddered again "Irene, please," he begged trying with his every fibre to ignore the warm, soft pleasure engulfing his body. Trying to force it down. Cold showers. Dead bodies. Green grass. Pirate ships. Mycroft. Bach.

He imagined playing his violin softly, the music calmed him slightly. Irene ran her fingers up the inside of his thighs, and the image was replaced with his fingers lightly touching the strings of his instrument, nimble, gentle, then he imagined his fingers gently caressing her thighs and sinking into her, warm and wet. "Gah!" he cried out again.

Fluid dribbled from his erect member. Irene doodled with it. Tracing patterns and softly stroking Sherlock's penis. "Fuck," he hissed.

"Tell me you want me Sherlock," she commanded. She took his shaft into her mouth, deeply for just a second.

"Oh god! Irene -" he trembled. His mouth was dry. There was fire burning in his belly. He wanted so badly to release. He didn't know if he could say it. He licked his lips to wet them, and imagined her soft breasts against his lips, teasing her velvety nipples with his tongue and teeth.

"Say you want me Sherlock" she said in a fiercer tone, climbing onto the bed and slapping him right across the face. His eyes teared, his cheek stung. She kissed the stinging cheek softly. "Well? I'm waiting?" She straddled his torso sitting expectantly looking at him. Fluids seeped from her wetting his bellybutton. She had waited long and was eager to claim her prize but on her terms.

"Irene - oh god - I want you, I need you. Teach me!" he choked. Sherlock's heart hammered, his mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls. He swallowed hard.

"Good boy," Irene whispered. Running her hands over his chest again she sank Sherlock's swollen member into her, enveloping him in her warm, wet, embrace.

She closed her eyes and groaned quietly. "You are Devine, Sherlock! Good boy you are!"

"Oh god, oh god," he groaned as she began to rock her hips slowly back and forth. He could feel the pressure and heat building again in his belly, and a sweat dotting his brow. He could use his hands still, if a bit shakily. He clasped his large, slender hands, one on each of her hips and pulled her violently to him forcing her to increase her speed.

"Oh god Sherlock you naughty boy," she hissed. She bent closer to him, savagely kissing him, knotting her fingers in his dark, curly hair.

He dragged his fingers down her back, leaving red lines in their wake. Irene bit his lower lip, drawing just a hint of blood smiling savagely and then crying out.

He managed enough control of his body to flip her and force her hard onto her back. The room had stopped spinning, the drug was beginning to wear off. He was too intoxicated to turn back.

"Ms. Adler" he bristled staring down at her, hands planted on the bed just above each side of her shoulders.

"Mr. Holmes", she replied staring back up at him. "Your move. Show me what you can do."

He kissed her savagely forcing her lips to part further with his tongue. Sherlock then moved his mouth down to her breasts, sucking gently on them, swirling gently around each nipple in turn with his tongue. She moaned loudly. He took her hips in his hands, and slowly brought his face between her thighs. Irene could feel his warm breath on her tender skin. The soles of her feet were tingling and her toes began to curl. She closed her eyes and her body shuddered as he kissed her inner thighs. "Oh god Sherlock!" she moaned. "You need to fuck me and fuck me hard."

He spread her legs wide and slid a long, slender finger into her, then two. She moaned again, he could feel her convulsions and her body grip tightly around him. "You are naughty Sherlock Holmes," she hissed between her teeth. "Fuck me for real."

Sherlock's face broke into a smirk and he giggled to himself. His eyes glinted playfully in the dark and crinkled in the corners. He crawled again over to his lover, gripping Irene by the shoulder, spreading her legs wide with his free hand and forcing himself into her roughly. She cried loudly, not that she minded, she did enjoy pain and was completely weak feeling him inside of her, throbbing. Sherlock was panting heavy in her ear, his breath coming ragged, sweat dripping from his brow. Their hips continued to meet savagely, to their joint pleasure. Irene dug her nails into Sherlock's shoulders leaving eight little crescents of blood along his back where they had pierced his skin.

It was painful but so sweet, as Sherlock's pleasure boiled over, he gasped and his mouth released a low, long moan as he came inside her, hot liquid filling her belly. Irene felt his whole body tense and then relax as he collapsed against her. Irene gripped him tightly inside her reaching her own finish as well, groaning and then collapsing back into the bed.

Sherlock cradled his head into her warm breasts and slowly allowed his breath to return to a regular pace as she ran her fingers through his damp curls.

"Irene Adler you are a devil," he whispered, closing his eyes and smirking.

Then there was a tap at the door.

"Sherlock? Everything alright?" John asked from the other side of the door. I'd nipped out and came back and heard shouting."

"Everything is fine John, I must have been dreaming!" Sherlock replied smiling wryly.


	2. A Dangerous Game

Irene crept out that night as silently as she had arrived. When Sherlock awoke the next morning and saw she was gone he smiled slightly.

The pair texted but didn't meet again immediately following their pre-Christmas tryst.

One day, weeks later, Sherlock lay in the bath at Baker Street, his long fingers tented together, eyes closed, brow furrowed, meditating over his latest case.

His phone moaned. The Woman. He opened his eyes and rose from the bath. Wrapping his wet body in a towel he grabbed his phone.

 _Ready? Better stay on your toes Mr. Holmes._

Sherlock pondered if this was about the sex or something else. He knew he didn't love her - love was a simple chemical imbalance, a disease for idiots. She was playing with him.

 _I'm always ready. Is it your professional mandate to never get straight to the point? SH_

 _Funny Mr. Holmes. It's just you're so much fun to tease._

He was annoyed.

 _Get our of my head. I'm busy._

He dropped the towel and stepped back into the bath. He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace.

He was revived back to the waking world by the click of the door an unknown time later. His eyes remained closed. He already knew what to expect next. Irene Adler slipped silently through the door, dropped her dark silk dress to the floor and stepped into the bath. "Mr. Holmes" she whispered.

"Ms. Adler," he said quietly with a half smile.

She pulled the pins from her glossy brown hair and it tumbled down her back. Irene then folded her body down on top of the detective kissing his forehead gingerly.

"Did you miss me?" She asked him, smiling.

"No," he said nonchalantly. "You should know better by now. To miss someone suggests love for that person, and love is a fool's distraction from more important things. I have thought of our tryst occasionally but wouldn't say I've missed you."

"Very well," she replied.

With that she placed her hands on top of his damp curly hair and forced his head below the water. She was stronger than she looked, a dominatrix's occupational hazard.

He peered up at her with large blue eyes through the soapy water not panicked but not pleased either. As his lungs began to burn with lack of oxygen he thrashed his limbs about in the bath and attempted to bring his head above the water. She smirked wickedly and permitted him to rise. He sputtered and gasped for air, water pouring down his face, his hair sopping wet and full of bubbles. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, pushing it off his face. "Christ, Irene?!" He sneered. "Was that really necessary?"

"Of course darling," she giggled.

"I'm not your darling, we're not even lovers. We only completed coitus _once_ ," he said petulantly.

"Oh Sherlock come now, you can't tell me you didn't enjoy it. I know you did," she cooed running her fingernail up the inside of his thigh and smirking.

"It was a mistake that only happened once and it won't happen again," he said. He was being cold with her. It didn't phase her. She knew how to break him if she must.

"Don't be so sure Mister Holmes. I know how to make you beg," she said gripping a fist full of his wet curly hair in her hand and wrenching his head back, to expose his long white neck.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I don't doubt that Ms. Adler. It is your calling after all. But I am **not** one of your clients!"

"No, you're much more than that. You, dear Sherlock, are my personal pet," she said sharply, sliding her lips across the exposed surface of his neck and nipping with her teeth.

Sherlock made a sharp expulsion of breath and flinched under her. His pale skin began to blemish, reddish-purple with blood pooling below the skin.

"Now be a good boy and fuck me," she hissed. Irene released his hair and kissed him hard, reaching between his legs with one hand.

They really were like two puzzle pieces, their two thin, white bodies perfectly interlocking, their minds the perfect sparring partners for one another. Now that it was right in front of him Sherlock did long for her again. Those soft breasts, her warm, wet embrace, her gasping, ragged breath in his ear.

"Oh, Irene," he groaned. "Why do you torment me so when you know I'm busy!"

"You make it too easy," she teased.

She stepped from the bath, let the water pour down her naked body, and glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Are you coming?"

He shook his head and pursed his shapely lips into a thin line. As he stood she could see she could still get to him. Her eyes swept quickly over his dripping, naked form, and she smiled at his erect member, ready and waiting.

Sherlock stepped from the bath and drew her to him, kissing her hard.

"Now what?" he asked, " you've got me here, your move."

"Get down on the floor," she ordered.

"A shag in the loo! Oh that's original!" he sneered caustically.

"And a romp in your bed wouldn't be?" She snapped. "Now get on the floor!"

He got down on his hands and knees and glanced up at Irene, rolling his eyes. She got down on one knee in front of him, smirking. Sherlock grabbed her from under the knee and drew her thigh to his mouth, kissing it.

"That's better" she smiled.

Sherlock got onto his back on the tile floor, looking up at the woman. She came to him, crawling on her hands and knees, her beautiful breasts bobbing closer to his face. He gripped her to him, catching her velvety, pink nipple in his mouth and sucking. Moving from one breast to the other, burying his face in her fragrant cleavage.

Then he flipped her so that he pinned her to the floor. Backing up on his knees on the floor he started with her toes and kissed his way up her gently curving calf to the back of her knee and up the inside of her right thigh. He crawled low to centre his face between her thighs, his warm breath condensing slightly, mixing with the warm water left there from the bath. He kissed the inside of both legs gently before diving into her, making full use of his tongue, nose, and lips. Sucking, licking, doing whatever he could to get a rise from her.

Sherlock could detect the heat of her body rising, feel the muscles of her legs and pelvis contracting and releasing around him as she moaned and writhed on the floor.

"Oh god Sherlock," Irene moaned. "You impress me. I think you've been studying!"

He smiled slightly and continued to dive her velvety depths until he could bear it no longer. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears, and feel his heart hammering against the cold tile floor. "Why do you make me want you?!" he cursed between gritted teeth. He ached to enter her again.

She giggled. "Well come and get me!"

He spread her legs wide and entered her forcefully gripping her knees and thrusting in a steady rhythm trying to drill as deep into her as he could. Her warm wet embrace was entpxicating. She gasped and arched her back off the tile floor.

Sherlock picked Irene up gripping her hips and slamming her back against the closest bare wall, her legs knitted around his waist, her arms slung around his neck. She panted hard in his ear as he thrust into her.

"Oh god," he groaned thrusting harder, his pale skin flushing red with exertion, beading with perspiration and humidity. The pressure was rising inside him, his body itching to release. He was trying to hold on, he really wanted to leave the woman who seduced him _again_ begging for more. She cried out gripping the curly strands at the nape of his neck, then feasting on his white neck. He moaned long and low as he came, filling her with his seed. He collapsed in against her, closing his eyes and taking a quick whiff of her damp hair. She smelled of lavender. He smiled. Just then the door flung open.

"Oh for fuck sakes Sherlock! I thought you were taking a bath," John with one arm over his eyes slammed the door again quickly and retreated to the front room.

Sherlock gave Irene his dressing gown and threw a towel around his waist. They headed out to the front room to see John pacing back and forth giggling. Irene and Sherlock exchanges puzzled looks.

"I believe it is common etiquette to knock before opening a closed door," Sherlock said softly.

"God, Sherlock. You are an utter cock. I came in and heard screaming you don't take time in an emergency to bloody knock and wait for an answer!" He raged as he paced. "How long has this been going on for? Were you going to tell me you were shagging The Woman?! All the times I asked you and you said you weren't interested."

"John, John!" Sherlock said quietly at first and then louder until his friend stopped and looked at him. "As you are married I didn't feel it mattered."

"Widowed Sherlock, I am widowed, remember? Mary died saving you. You are supposed to be my best friend, you were the best man at my wedding, and you couldn't be honest with me about this?" he resumed pacing, running his fingers through his silvery hair.

"Well if you're so emotionally involved in my sex life does that mean you are relieved?" Sherlock asked peering at his friend with a raised eyebrow. The emotional needs of people still puzzled him.

"Yes! Thank god, Sherlock! You've proven you must be human after all," said Watson with a smile. "Does this mean there may be fewer severed body parts in the fridge and fewer explosions in the flat?"

"No," said Sherlock with a puzzled look. "It means Ms. Adler and I will meet infrequently for sex."

John chuckled and shook his head, "Sherlock you've still got a ways to go before you're totally human. Now please go get dressed."

Irene and Sherlock left John standing in the front room, gazing out the window and shaking his head. She closed the door and shoved him on the bed. "Ready for round two Mr. Holmes now that we've been found out and Daddy approves?" Irene asked sardonically.

She dropped the dressing gown on the floor, grabbed a pair of handcuffs in one hand, and her riding crop in the other from her coat by the window and turned again to the bed. The detective simply looked deviously at her as she ran the tip of the riding crop down his chest and belly towards his towel. "This is a very dangerous game..."


	3. The President's Guest

It was a chilly autumn day in London. John and Sherlock are riding in a taxi en route to 221B Baker Street.

There's been a lull in their conversation. John is glancing out the window and Sherlock is furiously texting on his mobile phone. The near silence within the cab is broken by an erotic moan emanating from the device in Sherlock's hand. The two men's eyes meet for just a second.

 _Meet me at Battersea Power Station. Hurry._

"John, something is very, very wrong," said Sherlock. His face had become pallid and his voice trembled slightly as he spoke. The tone of the text was unlike the Woman: desperate, pointed, and not a hint of sass. "We need to go to Battersea. Now!"

"Excuse us," said Sherlock, hurriedly addressing the cab driver, "but can you take us to Battersea Power Station? Quickly!"

The former coal power station was the site of a current construction project. Things were in disarray. The cab pulled as close as it could, Sherlock tossed some money at the driver, and the two men sprinted towards the looming structure.

They drew their weapons and stealthily crept through the dark following the sound of loud voices. They crossed a metal catwalk into a large room where they saw Irene, bound and gagged and hanging by her wrists, suspended above the floor. Two large men stood by her speaking loudly to her in thick accents.

"You should have kept your mouth shut," one man spat at Irene. "Scheming whore!" He took a swing at her with a piece of rebar from the construction site. Irene gritted her teeth but made very little sound, simply staring down the men with eyes of folded steel. "Bitch must learn to keep her nose clean and leave toppling governments to the boys!" He grabbed a fist full of her hair and craned her neck back to get eye to eye with her. If she could spit in the bastard's face she would. This was certainly her game and she would win it.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances, as Sherlock rapidly calculated the physics and probability of various interventions. He did not see a weapon, yet the likelihood was nearly certain that these men would have multiple items concealed on their persons.

Sherlock shot his pistol past the group into the dark. The two thugs eyed each other silently, scanning their gloomy surroundings each circling the area from a different vantage. If Irene could have smirked she would have. He had come. Of course Sherlock had come. Good boy.

Like a cat on stealthy paws, Sherlock snuck behind the thug. He pistol whipped him and lay him quietly down on the ground. John disarmed the second man just as easily. The pair crossed the room towards Irene, she and Sherlock meeting desperate, hungry eyes, but not exchanging a word. Before they got close enough, the room filled with sudden smoke. John and Sherlock coughed and wiped their eyes, as the smoke cleared slightly they could make out a female silhouette and the click of heels on the concrete floor.

When the smoke cleared Irene and the crooks were nowhere to be seen. The power station was empty. Sherlock cursed himself for being so bloody human. How could he let her breech his steely logic? They were meeting and conducting coitus regularly now, as regularly as two very dangerous lifestyles can allow. And every time it was better. Longer, more intense, her body felt like home. He was stupid. So incredibly stupid.

"Sherlock?" John's voice interrupted his thoughts. Watson stood before Sherlock, perplexed. "What are you doing?! She's gone!"

"I've been an imbecile John. Such an incredible imbecile. I've been reduced to being bloody common - the Woman..." Sherlock trailed off.

John looked at his friend, placing his hand on the shoulder of his black wool coat. Sherlock smiled weakly. Somehow in the tryst of two sociopaths, Sherlock was most human. The Woman had permeated a soft space in Sherlock Holmes that very few knew. But unlike with John, Irene's knowledge of it made Sherlock feel a fool.

In a fury, Sherlock whipped out his mobile from his coat pocket and sent the Woman a text.

 _To quote Epictetus: It is the nature of the wise to resist pleasures, but the foolish to be a slave to them. I'm not your fool. SH_

He and John walked in silence out of the Battersea Power Station. Sherlock fumed for weeks with no word from The Woman. Composing music which seethed, making inquiries with his Homeless Network, even approaching Mycroft for help.

"Mycroft, you know I avoid you when all humanly possible, but in this I really need your help. Have you heard anything of Miss Irene Adler?" Sherlock begged. Sherlock's blue eyes were dull but desperate, his curly hair a disheveled mop, his face wore the shadow of an auburn beard.

"You mean your lover? She's made a fool of you Sherlock. You're soppy and soft, it's disgusting. Coiled around that bitch's finger. When she snaps you coming running like the obedient dog you've become. If you weren't glutinously gorging yourself on heartache and smack you would have solved this by now. Wake up!" Mycroft sneered. He sauntered over to Sherlock, roughly shoving up the sleeve of his brother's rumpled black dress shirt. Sherlock's milky forearm was a mess of track marks, some red and relatively fresh, others in various states of healing.

Mycroft peered disdainfully down his long nose. "Last my network knew she was in Turkey, a guest of the president. It would be my advice to make haste, Sherlock. For she may not be a 'guest' much longer."


	4. Turkish Delight

Turkey was hot by English standards in October. Still hovering around 20 degrees in the daytime, it was enough to build a sweat on the detective's brow.

He had completed some reconnaissance in the area and understood Irene Adler to be confined in a bunker near Ankara. He had prepared a disguise and been practicing his Turkish. He now wore a full beard and was by now quite tan. He had dressed as a local and was nearly unrecognizable.

He worked his way into the building on a fabricated pretence and rather than try to take on army single handedly, he developed his cover. He slowly uncovered where Irene was held, the schedules of the guards watching her, and made deductions about every staff member he crossed.

His plan rolled into action when he lit a fire in a far part of the compound. Alarms were ringing, the ancient structure quickly began to burn drawing most of the men to deal with the disaster. This left a pair of guards in front of Irene's cell. The smoke was become thick in the corridors so it was easy for Sherlock to sneak up, knock the two men's heads together, and enter the door.

When he reached Irene she was an unconscious pulp. Her brown hair a ragged, tangled mess; ratty scraps of fabric exposed intense bruising on her chest, neck and arms. Her lower lip was split, her right eye swollen shut. Blood dripped from her left nostril. Sherlock gathered her in his arms and removed her from the prison, navigating the smokey halls by memory.

In a safer space he gently washed her broken body with a sponge, dressed her in clean linen clothing, and put her to bed. He dutifully sat by her bedside until she was conscious again.

"Sherlock," she said in a hoarse whisper as her lips formed a small smile.

"Irene," he smiled slightly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He passed his hand over her forehead and hair, "welcome back."

He opened the covers and crawled into the bed with her and they slept. They restored each other with their presence. He awoke to the setting sun, the Woman's head on his chest. He smiled for this felt perfect and right. He knew this is what he wanted every day and every night. Irene completed him, but the more he ruminated on her his stomach became more and more knotted because he knew it was wrong. It could never be. Two dangerous people could never settle into domestic bliss with children and a flat, they could never get normal jobs, and pretend like death and destruction wouldn't constantly be knocking at their door.

When she awoke again Sherlock was distant and wore an expression of defeat. His brow was furrowed, his lips a hardened line. She rustled, put her hand to his cheek and smiled. Beautiful, obedient boy.

"Hello," she whispered.

Their lips met and they kissed tenderly. Everything about their copulation that night was tender. His large hands roamed her softly, they hungrily fed on each other's mouthes, he was intoxicated by everything about her.

She rode him hard, her skin all damp with sweat, arching her back, her mouth quivering with pleasure, dark hair lit by the sliver of moon coming through the parted curtains. He throbbed within her, aching to release, to be always trapped by her spell, to be possessed by only her. He never knew he could want to completely consume another person before.

She grabbed the hairs at the nape of his neck, buried her face in his long white neck, pushing, pushing, pushing, her thighs gripping his hips, her toes curling and pushing off hard against his calves trying to drive him deeper into her. Her heart hammering against his chest. Instinctively, she whispered hoarsely in his pillow, "I love you," but immediately hoped he didn't hear. "I love you too," he thought silently smiled, pretending not to have heard.

Foolish girl. If she could she would fold herself around him, protecting him. He seemed like such a small, defensive boy sometimes, and it was sweet. Yet their tryst had changed him. He had softened, he loved her. She had nearly domesticated his cold, scientific spirit. She had made him more ordinary. And it made her sad.

He would do anything for her, and she would do anything for him. But it was wrong. It had to end. But how could she tell him? It would ruin him. If he devolved into Shezza after three months of her in captivity what would a lifetime without her do? She would not be responsible for the death of Sherlock Holmes, either by abandoning him or by tying him down. But how could she stop this?

In the afterglow of lovemaking the pair shared a solitary cigarette.

"Irene...we need to talk. This has to stop," he said softly. Sherlock took a slow drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke into the air and passing the cigarette to her.

"I know..." she said taking it from him and taking a delicate drag. Her voice sounded less steel and more sad.

"People like us don't get married and start families and buy a flat. Can you imagine?!" Sherlock's voice was sad and hard. He imagined putting his hand to Irene's rounded belly, to cradling a wailing, bloody baby to his chest, to creating baking soda volcanos in the kitchen with his children, to Irene in his arms every evening. This Devine image didn't merge with solving crimes, state secrets, and serial killers. John and Mary tried and she died and nearly destroyed him too. It cannot work. One had to go.

"I'd like nothing more. But I know," she sighed. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. It was idiotic and soft. How could she saddle him and his genius with such domestic bullshit. If he wasn't using his brilliant mind to better the world and solve crimes could he really be happy?

They spoke at the same time:

"Sherlock, could you be happy -"

"Irene, John and Mary -"

They smiled at each other.

"I can deduce nearly impossible things about people in seconds, yet I'm unable to read you. You're fierce and intelligent, and beautiful. While I've never particularly enjoyed the company of others, I do enjoy your company. You challenge me, you turn me on, ," he said, putting his hand on her flat belly and kissing her hair. "While children generally mystify me, biology is telling me I want them with you." Her heart was a shredded sack of flesh.

"What happened to John and Mary is the worst possible case scenario. But it doesn't have to end that way. We can be together, we can be happy, and still do what we're doing!" she was foolishly optimistic.

Sherlock's slim fingers wiped the tears from her cheeks and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. They were at a crossroads, they loved each other, they wanted the same things, but both knew it seemed doomed.


End file.
